


there is a flower within my heart

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magic, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, Telepathy, as it were, humans as chattel, to nonhumans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: So the good news is that I've figured out the vicious cycle here, which is that I keep thinking I only need to writeonemore story to give my Very Good Boy a good enough ending, and then in each subsequent story he's such a Ridiculously Good Boy that I end up needing to give him something more.The bad news is that I don't know where this will end.  With John Reese somehownotbeing a Catastrophically Good Boy?  Signs point to no.(I'mnotgonna let him die heroically, though.  That's thecoward'sway out of this dilemma,canon.)





	1. Chapter 1

John's at the grocery store, examining green bell peppers for spots, when a woman's voice beside him says, "Why, hello, John," and he almost falls to his knees, right there in the fairly crowded Aldi produce section.

She's at his elbow, smiling up at him. She looks just the same as always. Cream blouse, jacket and pencil skirt (wine-colored this time), those same black shoes he's kissed so many times. 

He hasn't seen her, not _seen_ her, in daylight with his eyes open, since--

"Goodness," she says, "you look as if you've seen a ghost."

He's just-- staring at her. Waiting.

The mark on his chest heats up, just enough for him to feel it, at the same time that he feels her familiar touch in his mind. Gentle, reassuring, affectionate. It isn't words, but if it were, they'd be something like _It's all right, my darling_. Not that she ever called him that, except that one time, at breakfast, for the waitress' benefit. _Sweet John._

"Say something," she says, with just enough of a command in her voice that it overrides his paralysis, and he says, "Hey. Hey, Daisy."

"I didn't mean to startle you," she says. "I suppose it must be a shock to see me out of context like this. Like--" an infinitesimal pause-- "seeing your teacher, outside of school."

She must have gotten that analogy out of his head, and she's obviously amused by it.

A shock, yes, that's all it was. She can get to him any time, he knows that, that's part of what her mark does, and that she's chosen a public place means-- 

\--he doesn't know what it means, but she's smiling warmly, and he's not _scared_ , just-- bewildered.

She looks him up and down, still smiling. "You look well."

"I am," he says. "Thanks. You look-- the same."

"I am," she says. "It's actually very fortunate I ran into you like this, John. Would you mind if we exchange contact information? I have a bit of an opportunity brewing that I think you might be perfect for."

What. The fuck. 

She says, "Give me your phone."

He pulls it out of his back pocket, hands it over. She brushes his fingers with hers as she takes it, deliberately.

( _No one who can see that mark will touch you, while you bear it_ , she said, at that breakfast. And, later, when she was giving him instructions, what to do if the worst happened, _Try to make skin-to-skin contact, if you can. That will help._ Adding, as an afterthought, _Of course, anyone who means you harm will probably know that, too, and do his best to avoid touching your skin directly, so don't worry if you can't. Just stay calm, and wait for me._

So she's touching his skin-- to make sure he knows it's really her? As if he could mistake anyone else for her, even if they were using some kind of magical glamor to look exactly like her. _Why, hello, John._ )

She grins at him, and then looks at his phone, opens up the contacts, adds herself, under "Daisy," no last name. She puts in a phone number, hands it back to him.

"Text me," she says.

He taps her name, types, "am i dreaming," hits send. 

Her jacket pocket trills.

"Excellent," she says. "It's good to see you again, John. I'll be in touch."

She walks away, turns a corner so he can't see her any more.

He stares at his phone, half convinced that was all just a bizarre hallucination, but the number's there in his phone, his own sent text, _am i dreaming,_ and as he stares at it, his phone buzzes with a received text, making him jump like it's a defibrillator paddle in his hand:

_No._

............................

He gets the rest of his shopping done somehow, brings it home. Puts the groceries away. Takes a shower, and changes into clean clothes, the way he always does when he gets home, before he goes to Finch's study and knocks on the open door.

Finch says, without looking up, "Come in, John."

John comes in, kneels down at Harold's feet, looks up. Harold puts an affectionate hand on his head, without looking down at him, still typing with the other hand, and John lets himself just enjoy the bliss of this for a moment.

No matter how long he gets to live like this, it will never stop being a wonderment, that he's allowed to do this now. Like diving into cool water on a hot day, like looking up through clear, clean water at sunlight, not even needing to breathe because this is his element, the beauty and weightlessness and all-encompassing relief of being on his knees to this man.

Then Harold looks down.

"What is it?" he asks, alert, as soon as he's focused on John's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," says John. "I just--"

He doesn't know if he should tell Finch, is the thing. Finch and Daisy don't get along, at all, and John tries not to mention her. Tries to act like their lives don't involve her, at all. Which, Finch's doesn't, really, except insofar as it involves John.

Sometimes he thinks he should have taken Daisy up on her offer to wipe Finch's memory of their entire stay at Daisy's, the very existence of things like her. But even if he could have stood to have Finch not remember things like the first time John kissed his feet, or the first time he dared say _I love you--_ and he probably could have, he's an old hand by now at bearing the unbearable-- 

\--he knows it wouldn't have worked, not really. Daisy never worked all that well on Finch. 

How she looks, for example. The first time the three of them were all in the same room together, John heard the quiver of revulsion in Finch's voice when he said to her, _Get out. Leave us alone._ And, to John, _I don't want to have to look at it. That thing. It makes me sick to have it in the room._

Daisy looks perfectly normal to John-- smallish, dimpled, pretty though not head-turningly beautiful. Normal. 

But he kind of knows what Harold meant, because one time she gave a dinner party with John as the main course, and not all of the friends she invited were as good as she is at looking normal, or as careful about doing it for John's benefit. He got dizzy looking at some of them, a little sick, until Daisy finally told him to close his eyes, which helped a lot.

It's part of Harold's genius: his capacity to see past even illusions that are for his own benefit, his absolute refusal to just go _oh, a normal human woman_ and leave it at that. Like other aspects of Harold's brilliance, it's made things fucking awkward at times. 

John's positive that if Daisy _had_ tried to wipe Harold's memory, it would have left ragged edges, loose ends, that Finch, being Finch, would never have stopped tugging at. He'd know something wasn't right, and it would drive him crazy. Maybe literally.

It's one reason John doesn't lie to him.

Harold is waiting, all his attention on John, but not impatient. Just waiting.

John says, "At the grocery store-- I saw Daisy."

Finch sucks in his breath lightly. 

"Are you sure it was her?" he asks.

John nods. 

"She spoke to me," he says. "Said hi. Acted like we were old friends who just hadn't seen each other in awhile. She, uh. Gave me her number."

He holds up his phone, which he's been holding in his hand like it's a live grenade, shows Finch the screen, the brief text exchange under **Daisy.**

_am i dreaming_

_No._

"You didn't have a contact number for her before?" Harold asks, and John shakes his head.

"She said something like... she had an opportunity for me," he says. "She said she'd be in touch."

Harold's quiet for a moment, and then says, "Are you interested in her opportunity?"

That's a good question. 

"Yes," John says, fairly quickly. "I mean, yes, I'm-- interested. As in intrigued. I don't know if I want to do it, but I definitely want to know what it is."

Harold nods. "Then we'll wait to hear from her."

He seems a lot calmer about this than John would have expected.

"I'm not exactly unaware that certain aspects of our life together are-- subsidized-- by 'Daisy,'" says Harold, who's never once said her name without heavy, ironic emphasis. "And-- well-- I accept that. Because you-- not she-- to quote _The Godfather_ \-- 'made me an offer I couldn't refuse'."

"You don't have to say 'to quote _The Godfather_ ' when you quote _The Godfather_ , Finch," says John. "Everybody already knows when you're quoting _The Godfather._ "

Harold reaches down, cups John's jaw with his hand, tilts John's face to his satisfaction, and John holds still, looks up at him, his whole body flushed with heat, the way the mark on his breast heats up, when Daisy wants him to feel it. There's no part of him that doesn't bear Harold's mark of ownership.

Harold says, "I love you, John."

John nods, minutely. 

(Doesn't say _I love you too._ He's allowed to say it, but not as an answer like that, not-- Harold says-- as if he's returning a tennis serve. If he had breath to answer aloud, he'd say _yes, sir._ )

Harold nods, too, a little stiffly, and lets go, and looks back at his screen. Starts typing again.

John leans against his legs, long enough to catch his breath, long enough to metabolize that conversation.

Then he kisses Finch's knee, gets up, and goes to make dinner.

 

It's after dinner, when they're watching some lesser known Hitchcock thriller on TMC, and John's head is in Finch's lap, that John's phone buzzes again in his pocket, and he almost jumps out of his skin. Sits up.

Finch says, still calm, "It's all right, John. You said you wanted to know more."

He did say that, but he's still kind of hoping it's a co-worker texting to see if he wants to pick up a shift.

But it isn't.

_Is now a good time to talk?_

He starts to text back immediately, but-- he isn't sure what to say. When he lived with her, it didn't matter so much what he said, because she always knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Could see him down on his knees, see him shiver. How is he supposed to convey his respectful attention in a text? 

He's already hesitated too long, that's disrespectful too, so he just texts quickly, _yes_ , and then, because that does look disrespectful, _maam,_ although he never called her that, and, somewhat desperately, _i mean yes daisy_

Her reply comes quickly.

_You seem a bit nervous._

He texts back, _yes maam daisy maam,_ and she sends an emoji of a laughing face-- who in God's name told her about emojis-- and, _Would you find it easier to speak in person?_

He stares at the screen.

Finch is reading over his shoulder, but he doesn't say anything.

John texts back, _its just easier when you can read my mind_

There's a bit of a pause, then, while John stares at his phone. 

Finch runs his nails lightly over the back of John's shirt, soothing him. John closes his eyes.

It feels like forever, but is actually less than two minutes by his phone's timestamp before her answer buzzes in his hand.

It's an address. Here in town.

His fingers are a little cold as he types, _now?_

_Whenever you arrive._

John looks at Finch.

"It's your decision," says Finch, gently. "I do believe she won't let you come to harm."

John believes that, too. After all, if she wanted to hurt him, it's not like she'd have to lure him into some elaborate trap to do it.

He texts back, _ok im on my way_

 _Drive safely!_ she sends, and then another emoji, this one of lips puckered in a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

The address is residential, a house, a pretty little house, in a pretty little neighborhood, about twelve minutes' drive from home. Lots of trees, flowers, little hammered-tin pieces of yard decoration, windchimes. Flowers in hanging baskets on the porch. 

John parks on the street, double-checks the address in his texts, gets out. Walks up the little front path, suddenly missing the earpiece he used to have, for things like this. 

Not that there were ever things like _this._ Not that he even knows what this is. But Finch's voice in his ear would still be a comfort right now.

He rings the doorbell.

After a short pause, Daisy opens the door. Smiles at him.

"Come in," she says, and he does.

The front door opens onto a living room, furnished. Clean, pretty, bright. Books and magazines lying around, pictures on the walls, as if someone lives here. He wonders who. It can't be her. Can it?

(Someone else she owns?)

"No one else is here," she says, which doesn't exactly answer his question, but is good to hear anyway. "I wanted us to be able to speak in private. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I'm OK," he says. "Thank you."

She sits down, in an armchair. Doesn't tell him to sit down too, so he stays where he is, standing still near the door, only turning to face her, as she sits there and looks him up and down.

"So you do own a pair of shoes without holes in them," she says. "Really, John. Shopping in dingy supermarkets, dressed in rags, all with my mark on your breast. Anyone would think I didn't take proper care of my belongings."

He flushes slightly; he can't tell if there's real disapproval behind the lightness of her tone. He wears the same trainers to work in and to run in and to pick things up at the store in, and maybe they are starting to crack a little under the strain, but he was hardly dressed in _rags_ , earlier. 

Also, Aldi isn't dingy. It's affordable.

"Not that I don't applaud your thrift," says Daisy, "but you are aware, aren't you, that I can afford to absorb the cost of a new pair of shoes?"

"I-- thank you," he says. "But I don't want to-- impose."

He knows she's rich, yes; it isn't her money he's afraid of using up, it's her goodwill, her appreciation, for whatever good he is to her. The less he takes advantage of it for unimportant things like new shoes, the less she'll mind, hopefully, if he really does need it sometime. For something big.

"Have you forgotten your own impassioned speech to Mr. Finch, about how you've earned anything I do for you?" Daisy asks.

He smiles a little-- it _was_ kind of an impassioned speech-- and shakes his head. "But--"

But she's already done all those things he was talking about then. He can't help but feel that the longer he lives, safe and blissful, the more he owes, and her nighttime visits only do so much to take the edge off that feeling. She doesn't even make him _do_ anything any more, when she comes, except stay still for her. She says that's all she needs, now; that who he is, what he does, is exactly what she needs.

She says, "Sit down, John."

She gestures to a couch across from her chair, so he sits there, feeling awkward.

"Are you sure I can't get you a drink?" she asks.

"I'm fine," he says again, hoping she'll cut to the chase soon. Not that he isn't enjoying this incredibly surreal little chat, but the suspense is kind of killing him.

She says, "Do you remember the dinner party I gave, with you?"

He swallows, suddenly wishing he did have a drink in his hand. A double Scotch, for preference. 

Does she want him to do that again?

"Would you be willing to?" she asks.

He thinks about it. The part after he closed his eyes. How he'd never realized until then-- just like he'd never realized how good she was at looking normal-- how gentle she was, when she fed from him. How careful.

But it's not like he hasn't been through worse. Much, much worse.

And she could have just informed him he was going to do it. Hell, she could have just snatched him off the street yesterday, put him in her car headfirst, laid him out in her dining room and told him to shut up and hold still. 

But she didn't. She's asking. Is he willing.

"Yes," he says.

She smiles at him. It's a very particular smile. It's the one she gave him after he stood up before her for the first time, and turned around for her, showing her his brutalized body. One he's seen many times since, including the morning she put her mark on him, when he turned for her again. It's a happy smile, a glad smile, sweet with pleasure.

_Oh, look at you._

Then she says, "I'm pleased to hear it. Not least because what I actually do have to ask of you will be, I think, less taxing."

It takes a second for him to parse that, and then relief floods him. "So you don't want me to--"

"No," she says. "I mention it because the opportunity I spoke of involves one of the guests who was there. A friend of mine. One of the ones you were thinking didn't 'look right.'"

He nods, still feeling the relief that this only involves _one_ of them. 

"She contacted me because she's having trouble-- establishing a bond-- with a human she recently acquired," says Daisy.

Oh. _Oh._ Her friend's-- acquired-- a human. OK.

"Much as I acquired you and Mr. Finch," says Daisy. 

He nods. "From the--" 

He clears his throat. Breathes.

The smell isn't real, right now; it's memory, it's past. The tastes, too, metallic, and caustic, and of rubber, and latex, and leather, and. And nothing. He doesn't taste anything, right now.

He doesn't hear anything, either, not the sound of the air being cut, or of impact, or his own ragged breath, or the things he was told to say, and did, until something else filled his mouth.

"From the same people?" he asks Daisy. Breathing. Breathing just fine.

Daisy says, "Come here," and points to the floor at her feet.

John obeys, of course, gets down on the floor and crawls to her, kneels there, waiting.

"Sit," says Daisy, and he shifts his weight to obey. 

She reaches down, draws him in to lean against her legs. It's an affectionate gesture, and it reassures him. As long as she still values him, he's still safe. He and Finch.

"Since you ask," she says, "it may interest you to know that the particular organization from which I acquired you no longer exists."

He blinks up at her. 

"Since Mr. Finch had resumed the activities they found so objectionable in the first place--"

Fuck, he fucking knew it, he _knew_ they'd notice--

"They may not have been able to perceive my mark," says Daisy, "and, therefore, have believed I'd simply discarded you. Or they may have intentionally decided to challenge me. In either case, they made the official decision to eliminate you both."

_What?_

"About two months ago," says Daisy. "I wasn't going to mention it to you, since I was able to take care of it before you were inconvenienced. But just now, I thought you might like to know." She frowns slightly. "I should have taken pictures. You might have enjoyed seeing those, too."

"That's-- OK," he says, having no real idea what to say. "I-- Thank you."

"Of course," she says. "You're mine."

He's quiet for a bit, still leaning on her legs. Thinking about what she might have done, that she wishes she'd taken pictures of.

Thinking about what's ended, because of him. And Finch. And Daisy.

"You are mine," Daisy says again. "Until the end of your-- tragically brief-- natural lifespan. But."

He presses against her legs. He'll be good. He'll do anything. He doesn't want her to say "but."

"This isn't a threat," she says, gently. "Nor is it something I'll require of you, if you prefer to say no. It's the opportunity I mentioned. To help another human. My friend's new asset. If that sounds like something you'd find-- fulfilling."

"I-- yes," he says, because of course he wants to help the poor bastard, if he can, but-- "But how can I-- what can I do?"

"Feed her, for one thing," says Daisy. "My friend, that is. She's very hungry, which unfortunately makes it more difficult to sustain her personal appearance in such a way as not to unnerve a human. It's a-- catch-22? Is that the proper usage? The human is too alarmed to allow her to feed, but without feeding, her appearance becomes more alarming."

He nods. He can only imagine if he'd woken up for the first time at Daisy's house with-- instead of Daisy-- one of those friends from the dinner party sitting in the chair by the bed. As it was, it took a while before he even realized she wasn't human; he just thought she was fucking _weird._

"It's been some time, for my friend," Daisy explains. "Since she had to do anything like this. She had a stable bond for nearly sixty years, and when that human died of old age, my friend was too-- well, too grief-stricken, I suppose, and also too lacking in foresight, to begin right away to look for a replacement. Now she's both hungry and-- out of touch, one might say, with the times." 

That's-- kind of adorable, actually, the idea of a bereaved, socially awkward whatever-Daisy-is, trying and failing to make it with a new human. Although presumably the human isn't finding it all that adorable.

Daisy says, "She thought I might have more success communicating with her new acquisition than she. Not only because of her hunger, but because I acquired you relatively recently, and you settled in so beautifully with me, right away. Though I told her, that was more due to your virtues than to mine."

His _virtues?_ Does arriving pre-broken by long-term torture really count as a virtue?

"Broken?" says Daisy, sounding-- what is that, _indignant?_ "Is that what you think? On the contrary. Alert, pragmatic, determined, and valiant." She puts her hand on the back of his neck, warm. "Frightened, of course-- who could blame you?-- but hardly _broken,_ John. Hardly that."

He looks up at her. She praises him sometimes, calls him good and sweet and sometimes brave, but she's never said anything like that. Those-- adjectives.

"What about the human?" he asks, quickly, because that's what's actually important here. "Your friend's new-- person. How is he?"

"She," says Daisy. "I know very little about her, except that she, like you, suffered in her previous situation, and that she, like you, possesses qualities we find valuable. And that she's frightened, and in need of help." 

He nods.

She says, "You may say no. But I thought you'd-- like that. To help."

"Thank you," he says. "I mean, yes. Yes, I'll do it."

"Wonderful," she says. "When?"

"Uh-- now," he says, _obviously_ , if she's giving him a choice he's not going to _wait_ to do whatever he can for this person, this woman. This human.

"Not tomorrow?" she says. "When you'll be rested? You can go home, get a good night's sleep."

"I'm fine," he says; he gets good nights' sleeps all the time. "Anyway, I have to work tomorrow."

She gives him a funny look, one he can't quite read. 

"Really," he says. "I'm ready. Let me just text Finch, OK?"

She nods permission, and he pulls out his phone, pulls up the contact that says **Home** , the string of _be home 6ish_ and _leftovers in fridge of that stir fry_ and _need anything at cvs besides toothpaste_ -type messages, and texts:

_gonna go ahead and do daisys thing. dont wait up. i love you_

His phone buzzes quickly.

_I trust you._

He looks up at Daisy.

"All right," she says, and stands up, and holds her hand to him. "Let's be on our way, then."

He gets up, follows her outside, to her car-- a steel-blue Celica, this time-- gets in on the passenger's side, buckles his seatbelt as she gets in on the driver's side.

"You're going to be unconscious for the trip," she says casually, "so if you have any pressing questions, ask them now."

Only about a million, but he'd rather get this show on the road than start asking now. The ones that matter will get answered in the course of things.

"Very well," she says, and the world falls away.


	3. Chapter 3

When he opens his eyes again, Daisy's standing beside him, the car door open on his side, and she says, "Close your eyes."

He does.

"Don't open them again until I tell you to," she says.

Well, of course.

"Of course," she says, with a smile in her voice. "I didn't mean to impugn your obedience. Stand up."

She takes hold of him, helps him get his balance, then leads him. Gravel crunches underfoot, and then something softer, grass maybe.

A door opens.

Then there's a noise, a kind of anguished creaking, like a tree in a high wind, only in several different registers. John's scalp and arms prickle unpleasantly.

Daisy leads him forward, over a threshold, the door closes behind them. 

"On your knees now, John," she says, gently, and helps steady him down to the floor, which is soft, thick-piled carpet. 

Then she puts his hand in--

\--another hand, maybe? Although it's not-- there's something-- it isn't quite-- it doesn't feel--

"John," says Daisy softly. "Whom do you love?"

Oh. Right.

He's already on his knees; it isn't hard to orient himself, make this floor the floor of Finch's office, tilt his head up, eyes still closed, and see the familiar face, the man who can't help but try to fix things, who chose John, saw something of worth in him, brought him back to life. More life than he'd ever known, more meaning, a purpose, a self that was good for something--

(He cries out, quietly, but he knows he isn't dying; Daisy doesn't want him to die. The friend's just-- really, really hungry.)

And when he gets home, Finch will murmur in his sleep and turn to him, pleased by John's warmth. John will lie beside him, listen to him breathe, till his own breathing evens out to the same rhythm, and--

After a while, he whispers, "Daisy?"

"I'm right here," she says, close beside him.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I, may I please lie down?"

Daisy puts her arms around him, draws him down-- very carefully, very gently, without disturbing the friend's grip on his hand-- into her arms, lets him lie against her.

He breathes. 

Looks up, a hand cupping his jaw, and Finch says, _I love you, John,_ and John believes him.

Finally, Daisy says, "Enough," and it stops. The hand lets go. 

John lets his hand lie on the floor, where she dropped it. He doesn't have the energy to pull it back. 

"Open your eyes," says Daisy, and he does, blinks slowly, bringing her face into focus. Pretty Daisy.

She shifts him in her arms, there's some little commotion off to the side, and then she's holding something to his lips. An opened bottle of something.

"Sip," she says.

It's sweet and a little tart, some kind of fruit juice, but not an immediately identifiable kind like orange or apple or grape. It's good, though. 

When he's finished the bottle, slowly, in little sips as she tilts it to his mouth, he says, "Thank you."

Daisy smiles at him, then looks up, away from him, towards where the friend was, and says, "Well? Do you have anything to say to John?"

A low, rich, husky woman's voice says, "Thank you, John."

"Excellent," says Daisy. "Turn your head, John, and look at her."

He does.

She's sitting on the floor, not far away. Pale skin, black hair, crimson lips, like Snow White, or the White Witch from the Narnia books. Dressed in black, with a white shirt, and a narrow crimson silk tie loosely knotted at the throat. 

"Perfect," says Daisy. 

Oh, yes. She doesn't look wrong. A little unearthly, but not dizzying, at all. So he did it, it worked. 

"What's your name?" he asks the friend, who raises her black eyebrows, not at John but at Daisy, making him worry that he's committed some kind of protocol breach or faux pas. Daisy lets him talk anytime, unless she specifically instructs him otherwise, but maybe this one has stricter ideas about humans being seen and not heard. Or maybe he's only supposed to talk to his own owner.

"He wants to know how to address you," says Daisy, to her friend. "What is your new charge calling you?"

"Spooky cunt," says the friend, completely deadpan, and seems startled when John snorts slightly. 

"You should probably give her something else to call you," says Daisy, sounding amused, too.

The friend looks at John, speculatively, and says, "What shall I be called, John? Will you choose for me? Something that suits me."

Well. OK then.

Daisy's the only one of her kind who's ever introduced herself to him, and he can only think of flowers. Wild flowers, field flowers: violet, buttercup, clover. None of those, though.

He looks at the red of the friend's lips, and feels the numbed, languid heaviness of his limbs.

"Poppy," he says.

After a second, she smiles.

..............

Poppy's house looks like it's probably haunted, possibly by a murdered young bride in a bloody veil, or a little kid with cold hands and button boots who you find a hundred-year-old photograph of halfway through the movie. Also, the fruit juice he drank turns out to have been pomegranate, which he hopes doesn't mean he lives here now.

Daisy laughs, and says, to Poppy, "John finds your house a little gloomy."

Oh, can she not-- can Poppy not read his mind?

"Not nearly as well as I can," says Daisy. "It takes us some time and practice, for each individual. Like-- tuning a radio, to the right frequency."

She and Poppy are standing; Poppy's a full head taller, regal in her bespoke-looking black silk suit. Kind of a modern gothic witch-queen aesthetic. John's half sitting, half lying, on a pillow-piled velvet couch type thing that might be a chaise or a divan or a chesterfield, sipping some kind of hot, sweet tea that Poppy gave him in a china cup, watching them both.

They're arguing about who's going to approach the woman first. Poppy wants it to be Daisy, Daisy wants it to be John. 

"If she's in such a state," says Daisy, "she may see something wrong even with me. But not with John. Seeing another bona fide human will reassure her."

"She'll attack him," Poppy warns. "She's extremely violent. And he may hurt her in self-defense. Besides, he's a male. He shouldn't see her naked. It will shame her."

"She's naked?" John asks, startled, and they both turn to him.

"She won't wear the clothes I've provided," says Poppy, radiating fretful worry, the way Daisy sometimes radiates pleased goodwill, or-- when she's been around Finch-- irritation. "Something about-- a doll? And not wanting to be dressed up like one? But a specific doll, with a name. It was very strange."

"Barbie?" John ventures, and Poppy looks at him as if he's pulled a rabbit out of a hat. 

"It's a, um, a fashion doll," he says. "For kids to play with. And dress up in different outfits."

(He sort of likes this human already.)

"You see," Daisy says to Poppy. "John can speak to her in her own language, better than either of us."

Poppy doesn't look convinced.

John says, "Can I-- may I ask a question?"

"You may," says Daisy, smiling at him.

"Her, um-- person," says John. He doesn't know the terminology, if they even have words for it, but-- "She has one, right? Like I have Finch? That's why she's-- suitable, right, for you?"

"Yes," says Poppy. "That's correct, John."

"So where's her-- person?" John asks. "Do you have-- them-- too? Like Daisy got me and Finch, as a set?"

"No," says Poppy.

John nods. "But you have-- you have eyes on them, right? To make sure they're safe?"

"Yes," says Poppy. "Of course."

"Have you shown her?" John asks.

Poppy shakes her head, and says, "I haven't had a chance to explain _anything."_

John nods. "I just think-- Daisy hadn't explained anything yet, either, before she showed me Finch was safe. And that, um. That calmed me down. Got me to listen."

Changed his mind about killing her. Not that he would've succeeded. But it definitely would have taken him longer to settle in, if she hadn't showed him Finch right away.

"But how can I show her?" Poppy asks. "I can't even get near her while she's conscious, let alone take her out in public."

"Well, Daisy put a video screen in my room," says John. 

"Oh," says Poppy blankly. "I suppose-- I didn't think of that."

"I told you she was behind the times," Daisy says to John, and to Poppy, "Technology is amazing, these days. Let me see what I can manage in terms of a live one-way image of the focus, while John speaks with your charge. You can see what a lovely temperament he has. I'm sure he can calm her down, at least enough to allow for some basic communication."

"The focus," there it is. 

Also, "lovely temperament"? That's a new one.

He's not nearly as sure as Daisy is that he can calm the woman down, but he can give it the old academy try. 

"If you harm her in any way," Poppy begins, menacingly, to John.

"I won't," he says quickly, at the same time that Daisy says icily, "Don't threaten him, ingrate."

John freezes a little. So does Poppy.

There's a tense pause, while he wonders if they're about to fight for his honor. He's pretty sure Daisy will win if they do-- she's way better nourished-- but it's still an alarming prospect. 

Then Poppy says, to John, "I meant no-- ungraciousness."

"None taken," says John, relieved. "And really, I won't. I promise."

 

.................

 

He stumbles into the room with deliberate clumsiness, as if he's been shoved, and, as the door closes behind him, immediately goes to his knees and into a cower, hands up to shield his face, to signal in every way possible-- along with the fact that he got permission from Daisy and Poppy to take his clothes off, rather than walk clothed into a room with a naked, captive woman in it, although he left his boxers on, on the assumption that some stranger's cock is not high on her list of hoped-for sights right now-- that he could not be less of a threat. 

If she does decide to beat the shit out of him, he'll take it-- he can't exactly blame her, plus he promised Poppy-- but he'd just as soon avoid it if he can.

After a long few moments, a hoarse woman's voice says, "So what are _you_ in for?"

He lowers his hands cautiously, looks up.

She's sitting on the bed. It's an ornate bed, an ornate, velvety, haunted-looking room, like every other room he's seen in Poppy's house. 

(He wonders about the clothes, the ones this woman refuses to wear because she's not Poppy's fucking Barbie doll. Gowns, he bets, delicate and expensive, silk and satin and lace.)

Naked, yes. Cropped brown hair, intense brown eyes. Thin, painfully thin, like he was when Daisy first got him. 

And scarred. Very, very scarred. Thickened, shiny, pink burn scars, over-- a lot of her body, including some of her face, and some of where her hair would be. He keeps his own face still even as he winces inwardly, remembering what Daisy said about her "suffering in her previous situation." Clearly an understatement. It's a miracle she's even alive. 

She's staring at him, intently, studying him, and he holds still, thinking maybe she's checking to see if he's human, if there's anything subtly, horrifyingly wrong about him. He waits. His credentials are good, they'll check out.

Then--

_"Reese?"_

He hasn't heard that name in so long-- it's not what he goes by at work, of course, and Harold always just calls him John now-- that it's like a punch in the gut. Who--

He looks again. He doesn't know her. Or-- wait--

"Fuck," she says. "I guess I was right about being dead. We're both _really_ bad at it."

He stares. He can't quite speak, not yet, and Kara can't read his mind, although it sometimes seemed like she could.

But if she could, even a little bit, she'd hear him thinking, in utter shock, _Who do_ you _love?_


	4. Chapter 4

"Cat got your tongue?" Kara asks. "Oh, _did_ that psycho bitch with the dress-up dresses actually slice your tongue out and feed it to her cat? Because I might like you better like that."

He can't stop looking at her. He's lost track of how many times she tried to kill him, or otherwise destroy him; he'll probably never fully grasp all the ways she partially succeeded. 

He can't believe he didn't recognize her right away. Skinny as she is, short as her hair is, scarred as she is.

_Hello, lover._

"Kara," he says, finally, rejects _where have you been_ as a tactless question-- nowhere good, for sure-- and lands on the barely less ridiculous "Are you OK?"

"Ever the brain trust, Reese," she says, eyes-- both undamaged, it looks like, and he's oddly glad of that-- bright and intent on him. "Of course I'm not fucking OK." She flashes him a crooked, scarred approximation of her old, dazzling, terrifying smile. "How are _you?_ Don't answer that. You're dead. This is just me finally cracking under the strain. Fucking embarrassing, actually. Once the other, cooler hallucinations get wind of this, I'll never live it down." 

"I'm not a hallucination, Kara," he says.

"That's exactly what a hallucination would say," she says triumphantly. "Hey, but while you're here, do you want to fool around? Just for old times' sake? You were reasonably well trained, as I recall."

She lies back on the bed, spreads her legs wide, in what he would once have taken as an unambiguous command-- she _did_ have him well trained-- but he stays where he is, and after a minute, she sits back up, pouting.

"Fine," she says. "But honestly, if you aren't going to make yourself useful, what are you even doing here?"

"Uh," he says, and clears his throat. Tries for a smile. "Hilariously enough. I'm actually here to help."

"Yep," she says. "That's pretty hilarious, all right. OK, I'll bite. How? Mercy killing? Because I'll be upfront with you, I would not have a real big problem with that, but I'm pretty sure that even if you were really here, you're still too much of a pussy to actually go through with it."

"Yeah," he says. It's true: even after everything, he still can't imagine actually killing her. Maybe if she were still a threat, maybe to protect someone else, but-- "I mean, no, that's not why I'm here."

Her get-to-the-fucking-point-already face hasn't changed much. 

"I'm-- actually, in the same boat as you, I guess," he says. "Disappeared. Officially dead. Getting, uh, upcycled, instead."

She gives him a little smirk at that one, as he continues, "And my-- owner-- is a friend of-- your new one."

"And they set us up for a playdate, huh?" asks Kara. "That's sweet, Reese. But wouldn't a fight to the death make more sense? Final showdown?"

John says, "I don't think they knew we knew each other, before. She just said you were having trouble-- settling in. She thought maybe I could set a good example. Since I settled in so well, with her. Since I've been so good." He smiles, easier this time. She's so-- familiar. "You know. Here in the afterlife."

She considers that for a bit, watching him, with those eyes.

"OK," she says finally. "That makes more sense. So this is you, telling me to just. Just eat the fucking hamburger, right?"

He laughs. He can't help it. He'd forgotten all about that conversation, didn't even think about it, when Daisy brought him that first burger. When he meekly asked permission not to finish it, because his stomach was cramping.

( _You can't control anything around you, so you fight back in whatever little ways you can_ , Kara says, the suicide vest she's strapped him into heavy on his chest. _But, in time, you accept your fate. And have a hamburger._ )

"Yeah, laugh it up," says Kara. "Frankly, I'd love to _settle in,_ Reese. I'm not a whiner like you. I consider myself pretty adaptable. But here's the thing. The food's drugged. Or the water is. Or she's pumping drugs in through the air vents. Something. And a girl's gotta breathe, you know?"

"OK," he says. "Because you see-- weird shit, yeah? When you look at her?"

"Yeah," says Kara. "You could say that."

"But not now, right?" he says. "Things look OK now?"

She shrugs. "Other than the ghost of the ex-partner I killed, hanging out on the floor, sure."

"OK," he says again. 

Remembering the time he almost died, again, some more, and saw Joss again. The things she told him. That mattered, even if she wasn't really there.

Because there's something else, something that he bets is going to be more difficult for Kara to deal with than just the weird shit she's been seeing. 

"Since I'm just a hallucination," he says, "let me go ahead and tell you something the real Reese couldn't possibly know."

"Shoot," she says, giving him finger guns.

He says, "There's someone out there you love. Someone you've made sure nobody knows about. Someone you'd do anything to protect. Who matters to you, more than anything, more than your own life."

Her expression is getting cold. Alarms go off in his nervous system. _Danger_. Another way she used to have him trained. 

"Fuck off, Reese," she says, in her silkiest tones. "This isn't fun anymore."

"I know," he says. "Because if it's just about you dying-- or suffering, or breaking-- that's easy, right? You either get it right, or it's not your problem any more. Easy."

Her eyes gleam at him. 

"Unless," he says. "Unless there's someone else. Who matters."

(He holds still, the timer ticking on the bomb on his chest, while Finch enters digits on his phone with insanely steady fingers. Why won't he go, why won't he get to safety, why would he risk his own life, which is actually worth something, for John's? Why can't John stop him?)

"Fuck you, Reese," says Kara. "Fuck you and the drugs you rode in on. You'd like that, wouldn't you. If there was someone I really, truly cared about. If I turned out to be all soft, and sweet, and breakable. A fucking weak, pathetic, bleeding-heart little bitch, just like you."

"And here's something else I know," John says, steadily. "Whoever they are, the person you love, they're safe now. Because of you. Because you love them so much."

Kara says, "Reese, let me tell you something the rest of us learned the day in school when you were out sick with the stupid. Nobody's ever _safe_. And if they ever were, it sure as hell wouldn't be because somebody _loved_ them."

She says _safe_ and _loved_ with the same ironic emphasis Finch uses for _Daisy_.

But she's trembling. He can see it. Just a little.

The door opens behind him, and he jumps-- he really isn't doing a stellar job of calming Kara down-- and looks up.

It's Daisy, with a cellphone in her hand. 

She runs her free hand lightly over his hair as she passes him, on her way to the bed, and Kara. 

"Who are _you_?" Kara asks, recoiling slightly. 

Without answering, Daisy hands the phone to Kara, who takes it, looks at the screen, and then, in almost the same motion, whips the phone, directly and very hard, at John.

It's so unexpected that he doesn't even have time to get his hands up, and it's a good throw, with some spin to it; the phone's corner catches him hard in the chest, right over Daisy's mark, knocking the wind out of him, and when Kara starts to scream-- a familiar scream, of familiar agony-- he fights desperately for the breath to gasp, "Daisy, _don't--_!"

There's no way Daisy heard him, not with her ears, but Kara stops screaming. Breathes hard, her eyes wide, sweat on her skin, eyes on Daisy.

"Please," John says, to Daisy, panting a little too. He'll have a bruise, but-- "I'm OK, I'm fine, don't hurt her, please."

Daisy inclines her head slightly.

"Thank you," says John, and, to Kara, "I'm really here. See?"

She doesn't answer.

After a second, John looks down at the phone, which landed screen side up on the rug.

It shows a girl, a teenager, with freckles and sproingy strawberry blonde curls pinned on top of her head with a pencil, sitting at a desk, with a textbook in front of her, a notebook, a highlighter and a pen. Earbuds in, humming to herself, mouthing a few words. 

"Who is she?" he asks Kara, staring at the kid, then looking up.

Kara sits still, her jaw set. Swallows convulsively. Her eyes brighten, sparkle, and then she blinks, and the tears break free, and pour down her expressionless face.

John's heart contracts painfully, under the duller, more prosaic ache where the phone hit him. Kara doesn't cry. She's the cause of tears in others.

He gets up, to his feet, approaches the bed. Sits down, very carefully, next to Kara. She doesn't look at him.

"She's safe," he says. Whoever she is-- however long she's mattered like this to Kara, whyever she matters like this-- "I swear. She's taken care of, now. Because she's yours. And you can get things for her. Whatever she needs." He tries to think what a kid needs. Looks up at Daisy. "Money? Scholarships? Internships, maybe?"

"Perhaps," says Daisy. "If Kara can learn to cooperate."

Kara's not looking at either of them, or at the phone, still lying on the floor. She isn't looking at anything. The small breaths she's allowing herself are probably more painful than outright sobs.

John hesitates-- what if she claws his eyes out, or tries and Daisy acts to protect him and he's just made everything worse--

\--and then does it. Very carefully. Puts his arms around her.

She turns to him, leans on him, lets her weight rest against him. Buries her face in his neck. He tenses slightly, half expecting her to bite out his carotid artery, but she just trembles, her tears cooling on his skin.

He holds her. 

Kara, who tried so hard, to make him just like her. To strip him of all the things she found tiresome or inconvenient or distasteful about him, or else destroy him. And he tried hard, too, for awhile. To be like her. Or else be destroyed.

And now they're both stripped down, laid bare, and it's Kara who turns out to be, at least a little bit, like him.

 _You'd like that, wouldn't you,_ she snarled just now, and-- yeah. Yeah, he does. He's sorry it's so hard for her right now, that this part is so hard, but--

He says, "You're gonna be so good at this, Kara. You've always been good at getting things done. No matter how hard. And this, it's so much easier than you think. It's so simple, when you know. What to do, and why. For who."

Kara shakes against him, and then she's really crying, with big, heaving, gulping sobs, like a kid herself, or like John, the morning he broke, because everything was lost, and wept into Daisy's lap.

He holds her close. He says, "It's OK. It's gonna be OK."

Daisy doesn't say anything. Lets Kara cry for a while, the way she let John, too, then. Silently, he thanks her. 

(He doesn't know how she knows that humans just need this sometimes, but he does know she studies. And not only technology and idiom. He's thought a lot about that casual remark she made one time, about a novel she'd put in his room: _I found that one quite instructive._ )

 

 

Kara, quiet and limp now in his arms, doesn't move or look up when the door opens again.

It's Poppy, of course. She comes in, closes the door behind her. Looks at John and Kara, on the bed.

"It's OK," John says again, to Kara. "She looks normal now. I mean, not normal, exactly, but she's not going to give you a migraine, to look at."

Kara won't look up, though.

Annoyance brushes up against John's mind, like a tangle of seaweed. Poppy's, he thinks, not Daisy's. 

"Please go easy," he says, to Poppy. "Give her time. To get used to all this. I know you're hungry, but-- well, how long will what I did earlier last you?"

Poppy looks at him curiously, but doesn't answer.

He says, "If you need--"

He looks at Daisy, over Kara's head. 

"If you'll let me," he says, his voice-- pretty steady-- "I can-- do it again. I mean, regularly. If you'll bring me back here. If she needs it, for awhile. You know I can take it, you know I can do more than what you make me do anymore. Just while Kara gets-- adjusted."

Daisy looks at him, her expression unreadable.

Then she says, briskly, "We can discuss that later. For now-- you're tired. It's time for us to go. Say good night to your friend."

John knows better than to push it, or argue about how tired he is or isn't, when she's got that decisive tone to her voice. 

(But she said _say good night,_ not _say goodbye_. And the last time she said they could discuss it later, she meant yes.)

"Kara," he says, for now, and gives her a tiny shake. "Sit up."

She does. 

She still won't look at Poppy, or at John either; she looks down, now, at the phone on the floor. John wishes they could leave it with her, but he thinks it's Daisy's. Maybe he can negotiate for a TV screen for Kara's room, now that Poppy's joining the twenty-first century. 

"Eat the hamburger, yeah?" he says to Kara, and she does look at him then, eyes alert in an otherwise masklike face. "Get some rest. Try to relax. And listen. It's all gonna be OK."

Daisy holds out her hand to him, and he stands, and takes it.

She doesn't even wait to get him to the car, this time, before knocking him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (John's remark that in certain circumstances "you either get it right, or it's not your problem any more" inspired by [this tweet.](https://twitter.com/SuburbanFiveOh/status/985576654964740096?s=19))


	5. Chapter 5

When his eyes open again, he's dressed, in the passenger's seat of Daisy' car, back at the house where she had him come meet her. It's dark outside.

"Whose house _is_ this?" he asks, as she opens her car door, and she says, "Mine, of course."

He gets out, feels in his pants pocket for his car keys, which aren't there, _fuck_ \--

"Here," Daisy says, jingling keys at him, his own keys. "I'll drive you home."

"You don't need to," he says. "I'm fine."

She doesn't bother to answer that, just heads for his car where it's parked on the street, his keys in hand, and he follows her, gets into the passenger seat of his own car as she gets into the driver's seat. Actually, it's just as well; he _is_ still feeling a little... disoriented.

She says, as she starts his car, "I didn't realize the young lady was a former acquaintance of yours."

He nods. "Sorry if that-- threw a wrench into things."

"You have nothing for which to apologize," says Daisy, pulling into the street. "You exceeded my expectations, as you routinely manage to do. I suppose _I'm_ apologizing to _you."_ She gives him a small sideways smile. "I'm aware that wasn't the worst ordeal to which I've ever subjected you, but it still wasn't one I intended."

"It's OK, Daisy," says John, kind of touched that she seems-- what, concerned? "I'm glad you took me. It was good to see her. Will--" He hesitates, but-- she's happy with him, even apologized to him, maybe now is a good time to ask. "Will you let me see her again?"

"Yes," she says. "I will. If necessary, we can-- well, logistics aside, the answer is yes."

"Thank you," he says; it's a more definite answer than he expected. Almost a promise.

"Entirely a promise," says Daisy. "You were correct, earlier, that if it came to a-- struggle-- between Poppy and myself, I would win. So, although I don't expect it to come to that, you may depend on my word that you will be permitted to see Kara again."

Damn. Is she saying that if Poppy objects, tries to keep John from seeing Kara, Daisy will-- what, beat her up? That's-- damn.

"Thank you," he says again.

Daisy's smiling. "You're welcome, John."

He doesn't ask Daisy if she knows who the girl is, the kid on the video feed, Kara's focus. Kara will tell him herself, maybe. When she's ready. In the afterlife, all kinds of things are possible.

 

Daisy pulls into the driveway of John and Finch's house, cuts the engine. He sits still, watching her, as she pulls the keys out of the ignition and holds them out to him.

He reaches for them, and then, on impulse, clasps her hand in his, bends his head down, kisses her fingers. 

He feels the touch of her in his mind, her warmth and affection, and even before he lifts his head, he knows how she's smiling.

"Get some rest," she says. 

"Yeah, not too much," he says. "I have to work tomorrow. Today."

She gives him a look. "Call in sick, John."

"I'm fine, really, I," he begins, and she says, "That wasn't a suggestion."

He swallows, nods. 

(He does have some paid sick time saved up. It'll be OK. And Harold can probably forge a convincing doctor's note if necessary.)

"Good boy," she says, and opens the door on her side, gets out. He does the same.

"Are you just gonna-- walk home?" he asks, over the roof of the car.

"I don't know," she says, and does a theatrical little frown of concern, in the faint light of the streetlight. "Do you think I'll be safe?"

 

It's dark inside the house, but there's a light coming from the bedroom.

Finch is in bed, but not asleep. Bedside light on, a book in his lap. Watching the bedroom door. When he sees John, he smiles.

John kicks off his shoes, then strips down to nothing, putting his used clothes in the laundry hamper in the corner as he sheds them, setting his phone down carefully on the bedside table, plugging it in, before he crawls in next to Finch, who puts arms around him, pulls him in close. He smells clean, like laundry, and fresh, like toothpaste, and softly herbal, like the chamomile-lavender tea he drinks sometimes at night, and like himself. Like home. 

"I thought you'd be asleep," John says. He's suddenly-- all in a rush, as if he's been drugged-- very, very sleepy himself. 

Finch kisses him softly on the lips, and John slumps against him like Sleeping Beauty in reverse.

"I gotta text Marin, at work," he mumbles, into Finch's neck. "Tell him I can't come in tomorrow. Today."

"I'll take care of it," says Finch. "Anything else, before you fall asleep?"

There isn't.

 

When he wakes up, bright sunlight showing through the cracks in the curtains, Finch is uncharacteristically still in bed with him, still in his pajamas, reading something on his phone. 

"Hey," John says, and Finch looks over at him, smiles, adjusts his glasses.

"I'll make coffee," he says.

"I'll make it," John says, and Finch says, "No you won't."

He comes back to bed with two mugs, climbs back in, and John sits up, to sip. Coffee in bed, so late, with Finch here, too, both playing hooky from work: it's a festive, unexpected-holiday kind of feeling, a snow-day feeling. They should be watching cartoons, eating Pop-Tarts out of the silver wrapping. 

"What can you tell me?" Harold asks. "About what happened?"

"Everything, I think," says John. "She didn't tell me not to. But there's-- a lot to tell."

"I'm listening," says Finch.

So John tells him. Everything. 

About the house, and what Daisy said, about his shoes, and about what she did to the people who were coming after the two of them. (Though not what she said about what it had to do with Harold's work. There's no need to make him feel jumpy, or like he can't do what he needs to do. Daisy's got this under control.)

And then about Poppy, and her spooky house. And--

"Remember my old partner?" he says. "The one who kidnapped me, and put that suicide vest on me?"

"I never actually had the pleasure," says Harold, "but I remember the sequence of events, yes."

"Well," says John, and tells him-- everything. The scars. The focus. The tears. And Daisy's promise.

When he's done, Harold's quiet for a bit. They've both finished their coffee, set their cups aside; now Finch is holding John's hand, looking at it. 

"I mean," says John, into the silence. "Snow said, that one day it all went down, that me and Kara were two of a kind. Both-- damaged goods. I don't guess any of us had any idea how right he was."

Harold is tracing the lines on John's palm with a fingertip, studying them, as if he's about to say, _Beware a crossing of the water._

Instead he says, slowly, "Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest, / I find some woman bearing, as I bear, / Love like a burning city in the breast."

John says, "What's that?"

"Something I always liked," says Finch, "and never really understood. John--"

He does look up at John's face then, that thoughtful, slightly myopic stare.

"I never met Kara Stanton," he says. "I wish I had. If she's anything like you."

John swallows. 

"I hope I can-- look out for her, a little bit, again," he says. "We used to-- have each other's back."

"Until she tried to kill you," says Finch. "Repeatedly."

"Yeah, well," says John. "God forbid she huck a phone at me again. Daisy's a tiny bit overprotective."

Finch smiles, unexpectedly, almost grins.

"What?" John asks. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," says Finch. "It isn't funny, really. It's certainly not a laughing matter that-- things-- like 'Daisy'-- exist. And think nothing of keeping human captives, for their nourishment." 

He does grin at John, then, as he adds, "But if 'Daisy' annihilated an entire sadistic shadow organization because it threatened your personal wellbeing, then-- well, it seems I'm in agreement with at least some of her priorities."

John grins back. "Finch, you're a romantic."

"You're one to talk," says Finch. "Sir Galahad, riding to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Storming the castle of the wicked queen."

"I didn't storm anything," says John. "And Kara's not much of a damsel."

He hesitates, says, "It did feel good, though. Helping out, a little. And not just-- behind the scenes. Finch, if you ever want to-- send me out, again-- if you ever need-- fieldwork done-- someone on site--"

"The risks," Finch begins.

John says, "Yeah, the risks. Maybe next time she'll think to take pictures."

Finch laughs a little at that. "Point taken."

Then he says, "John?"

John waits.

"To live is to be damaged," Finch says. "To be used. To be hurt. To be changed. And shaped, into something different from what we planned."

John nods. He knows all that. 

"And you are--" Harold reaches up, with the hand that's not holding John's, touches John's cheek. "Damaged, yes. Of course."

Of course. Although it kind of hurts, a little, to have Harold say it. But-- of course. 

"And I'm-- so sorry, for all you've suffered," says Harold. "I wish, for your sake, that you could have been spared. Protected. If I could make it so, even at the cost of my own life, I would."

John shakes his head. "I don't--"

"Hush," says Harold. "I'm not asking whether you'd want that. I'm simply telling you that I would. And yet-- that for my own sake-- selfishly--" His thumb rubs a circle on John's palm. "All that you are. Damage and all. The-- shape-- of you, my John. It's-- so beautiful."

John shivers, as Harold says, "And that you're mine. It's-- more than I could ever have expected, for my life. To be loved, so completely. By someone like you."

John turns over, from his side to his face, puts his head down to the pillow, buries his face. He doesn't know how he should look, right now.

Harold's hand touches his hair. Gently, tenderly, possessively.

Harold's voice says, "Are you listening?"

John says, muffled, "Yes, sir."

"Good," says Harold. "Because-- despite never having expected, or hoped for, or aspired to, the gift of someone like you-- I find myself unable to give you up. Unable to bear the thought of losing you. Do you understand?"

John nods, into the pillow, and then turns his head, looks up at Harold. 

"You won't," he says. Dizzy, joyful. "Not until the-- what was it? The end of my _tragically brief natural lifespan._ "

"I'm going to hold you to that," says Finch. "And her, too."

John lunges, into Harold's arms, puts his head down on the pajamaed shoulder, clings. Harold holds him, kisses him, kisses his ear, his neck, his jaw line, his mouth, and then.

........................

He texts Daisy, later that same day, _thank you again. for everything_

Daisy texts back, about five minutes later, _You're welcome._

And then, _I'll contact you to arrange another meeting, once you've fully recovered from this last one._

 _im already fully recovered_ , he texts, because he feels fine, really. 

_I'll be the judge of that._

_yes maam daisy maam_ , he sends, and she sends back another kiss emoji, and _Don't worry. Your friend is doing better already,_ and that's the end of that particular text conversation.

.........................

 

The next time he texts her, it's to say, _hey did you by any chance pay off my credit card and put a crap ton of money into my bank account_

She texts back, _I'd hardly characterize it as a "crap ton."_

_daisy be honest how much do you think shoes cost_

She sends the laughing emoji at that.

Then, _I thought you might be able to find a use for more free hours in the week. A bit of a financial cushion should give you some flexibility with your work schedule._

And, _It's in my interests, after all. I don't want you "cracking under the strain."_

"Finch," he says, poking his head into Harold's study. "You want to go out tonight? On me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [sonnet](http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/edna_st__vincent_millay/poems/20173) Finch quotes is by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading <3 <3 <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [here is your answer true](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725256) by [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok)




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